Housekeeping
by Shinichi06
Summary: John attempts to get Sherlock to cook while he cleans, only to find out Sherlock's misinformation at the science of gastronomy.


FF – Sherlock

Housekeeping

Warnings : Sherlock with a slightly canon personality. Possible loopholes.  
>Characters : Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, mentions of Harry Watson and Gladstone the English bulldog.<br>Summary : John attempts to get Sherlock to cook while he cleans, only to find out Sherlock's misinformation at the science of gastronomy.  
>AN : Originally written for the prompts "Cooking Lesson" and "One time where Watson solves the case before Holmes". I used Jamie Oliver's Roast Beef recipe as the basis.

Disclaimer : Own nothing.

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><p>The first sign which told John that Sherlock had regressed into boredom again was the fact that Gladstone had failed to run up to him in eager when he returned to 221B Baker Street from his grocery shopping.<p>

"Sherlock! What have you done to the dog this time?" He yelled up as he climbed his way up the stairs, made narrow by the piles of books that lined the sides. He sighed. Yet another area in their flat to clean up.

The loud gunshot that echoed from the living room was the only response he received, and he groaned aloud. Making a mental note to get wallpaper as well as wood for a bookshelf, John pushed the door open with his shoulder as he steadied the heavy paper bags he carried in his arms.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, gun in hand and pointed at the scarlet red walls of their home. Smoke rose lightly from the barrel of the firearm, and Sherlock let it hang loosely as he opened an eye to watch John cross the room into the kitchen.

"Raw steak, carrots, onions, fresh herbs, detergent, bleach and more detergent. Are you turning into a housewife, John?" Sherlock commented lazily from his seat, throwing the gun aside.

"You _could_ help, you know." John scolded gently, pulling items out and storing them. "And I am going to need you to stay in the kitchen – the living room is an absolute mess and an invitation for pest infestation."

Sherlock scowled petulantly. "I hope you're not implying that I live in a pig sty."

"And we would all be pigs. Now come here and help." John laughed with good mirth, and then paused for a moment. "Please?"

Sherlock grumbled incoherently in his seat, and then stumbled over into the kitchen. After all, John did ask nicely. "Fine." He leaned on the counter, prodding the contents of the bag with faint curiosity. "Are you making roast beef or baked steak for dinner?"

John smirked. "Oh, I'm not making dinner tonight. You are."

A pregnant silence hung tauntingly in the kitchen air, as John busied himself in the background, humming a tune lightly.

"Hold on. Wait, I'm sorry, did I hear you right?"

"You heard me fine, all right." John said, amusement gleaming in his eyes as he handed a small notebook to Sherlock, who accepted it with much disdain. "It'll be fun, like chemistry, except much safer. Cooking is a science, of course, unless, you have no confidence in your own abilities?" He knew that such a challenge was one that Sherlock would take bait to, especially when it comes to a question of his ability. It was with knowing satisfaction that he smiled, as Sherlock fell to that taunt and flipped through the recipe book grudgingly.

"Hmph. How difficult could it be?" Sherlock murmured, eyes studying the book carefully, confident that he would very much surpass John's expectations.

"Excellent! Stay in here, then, won't you? The mess in the rooms won't clean itself, you know?" John soon left Sherlock behind, lugging along the pail and mop and whatever other cleaning contraptions they had in their home. Sherlock sighed. At least he wasn't the one who had to deal with the container of rotten maggots that he had kicked under the shelf when he heard John return.

Leafing through the notebook, Sherlock ran his fingers across the ink stained paper. The book was filled with mostly old entries, but the recipe for roast beef, was still fresh. John must have written it in on his way back in the taxi. The listed ingredients were all accounted for – clearly, John had planned for this, and Sherlock had fallen for his scheme.

Still, he would give John a little credit for his plan. Apparently, his friend understood him better than he thought, as he read the recipe further, resisting a groan. John had found it as necessary to explain every step in detail. Sherlock tossed the book away. Science was about being spontaneous and creative too.

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><p>John glared at the state of the living room. The piles of books that trailed along the stairs continued along the walls, and yellowed newspapers laid on the floor. The first course of action would be to sort out the rubbish from amongst everything, and the books should be kept aside for until the shelf was up and be sorted into alphabetical order by subject and author. Sherlock's experiments will then be categorised into harmless, dangerous, and disgusting, though he honestly doubted that there would be any in the first group.<p>

Deciding to gather the papers into a neat pile for Sherlock to archive if need be, John reached towards the nearest item and pulled his hand back with a shock as a cockroach flew out from below it. His heart gasped as he quickly drew the curtains back, pushing the large windows open.

Well, at least, that wasn't exactly a surprise, considering the awful condition of the room, but all the same, he would have quite liked a warning of sorts. Even in the war you could hear the opposing side yelling for fire to be opened, and cleaning their flat definitely constituted war.

He pushed the furniture towards the walls to clean out the areas hidden from sight, and froze when he noticed a clear container that hadn't been there yesterday. The contents in it looked suspiciously like…

John tried not to throw up when he blanched. "Sherlock!"

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><p><em>John must have found the maggots.<em> Sherlock thought absentmindedly as he chopped the vegetables. It was appropriate revenge, he supposed, though he didn't plan for that one.

Cooking was surprisingly easy, even for something that was completely new to him. Tossing everything into a large pan and throwing it into the oven, Sherlock relaxed on a seat. Well, he was mostly done, and now that he had gotten the swing of things, he could help John with the cleaning. Alternatively… Sherlock glanced at the open kitchen window. This was just the second floor, wasn't it? Not much harm could be done if he jumped out. He could head over to the laboratory to work on some experiments if he did.

He would return an hour later, and no one would be the wiser. Cleaning was such a bore anyway.

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><p>John shoved the last of the rubbish into the large bin bag, wiping the perspiration on his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper. Tying a tight knot on the black bag, he lugged it down the steps and left it by the door. The waste collector would only arrive tomorrow, but it was better than nothing.<p>

He was already beginning to feel exhausted, but he hoped that Sherlock was at least be hard at work as well. John looked forward to a hearty dinner at the end of the day.

* * *

><p>The walls and floors were scrubbed and the shelves were dusted. The living room was clean, and hardly reminiscent of the mess that it had been earlier. His mother would be proud, John thought, because she had always lectured him on the state of <em>his<em> room.

He knocked on the kitchen door, feeling a faint scent of cooked roast. His stomach growled in response and he frowned in embarrassment. "Sherlock?"

The kitchen door opened, and his friend beamed brightly at him, face red and breathes deep. "Ah, John, I see you're done with the cleaning."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you quite alright? You're panting." He wondered if Sherlock was feeling sick, and reached his hand to feel the other's forehead in concern, to which Sherlock brushed away lightly, smiling.

"No, no, I'm fine. Quite fine, in fact. Ready for dinner?" Sherlock said, trying to gasp a little more inconspicuously. Curses to getting carried away! Sherlock had forgotten about the time, and climbing up a floor from the back wasn't quite as easy as he had anticipated it to be. The ladder that he had placed nearby had disappeared when he returned, much to his dismay.

John nodded numbly as he collapsed onto the dining chair, eyes closed in exhaustion. The delightfully warm smell of roast beef penetrated the evening air as a plate was shoved before him, Sherlock taking a seat in front of him as well.

He eyed the food warily. "I should be able to trust your skills, right?" Something was a little off about the food, but he couldn't quite place his finger on what it was. The colour? The smell? He wasn't sure.

"Of course you should. I'm a professional." Sherlock smiled slyly. John shrugged it off, and cut off a piece, placing it in his mouth. He resisted the urge to spit it out.

"Oh, Sherlock!" He washed the taste down with a few gulps of clear water. "Sherlock, this…" He attempted to consider his words carefully, to phrase it in a way that would least insult. He couldn't. "This tastes terrible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_You're_ terrible." As he tried out his own food, it was mostly out of sheer pride that he swallowed it. "This tastes like… a leather boot. Why?" He glared at his plate, as if it was the meat's fault that it had turned out so awful.

"Did you read the recipe?" John prodded.

"Yes. Precisely two by two cm cubes for the vegetables in equal amounts, and the steak an exact thirty by twenty cm and cooked at no more than two hundred and forty degrees Celsius. Admittedly I took a little bit of liberty and drizzled a mixture of rosemary and thyme before I spread the pepper lightly, and I soaked the meat in olive oil whilst I prepared the vegetables but I absolutely fail to see how it would affect the final result adversely." Sherlock said grumpily. He wasn't used to failing so spectacularly like this.

John sniffed the meat gingerly. "Sherlock… you didn't baste it, did you?"

Sherlock blinked. "I'm… I was under the impression that the olive oil would be sufficient." He wouldn't admit that he had been out in the period that the beef cooked, but he had honestly believed that the oil would be enough to prevent it from drying out.

Well, it's just one hypothesis that failed.

"We could call for a delivery meal if you like." Sherlock suggested. Yes, best to get this entire fiasco over and done with, and the mistake would be buried eternally in the history of forgotten cooking screw-ups.

John shrugged. "Shame. I _was_ looking forward to a home cooked meal though." Satisfied with his answer, Sherlock took out his phone and made to call Angelo's. When he returned moments later, John was already scraping away the last of the disastrous attempt.

"You know, it's not so bad. I was worse with my first attempt." John said, piling the dirty dishes into the sink and dousing them with soapy water.

"Oh?"

"Yes. The oven went up in flames." Sherlock choked on a laugh, to the amusement of John. "It's not funny, you know? I was young then, imagine the shock I had."

"I guess you got better since then." He smiled lightly. John thought it to be surprisingly genuine.

"I did. And you will too." He patted Sherlock's shoulder sympathetically before walking away. "In the meantime, I'll have a shower. Let me know when the food arrives."

Sherlock tapped the counter impatiently in thought. Regardless of what John had meant, he would accept the challenge again. And John _will_ be impressed. He was certain of it.


End file.
